


Maybe for Eternity

by coloured



Category: One Direction
Genre: ?????? what does angst mean, Angst, Gen, Hints of Larry - Freeform, I WAS FEELING PHILOSOPHICAL, IT SEEMED RIGHT, M/M, THIS AIN'T ALABAMA, cousin it from the adams family, harry is like his golden retriever, harry is my son, idk if this is pre relationship, jk, jk that's incest, louis is my son, louis is sensitive, louis is so cute, ok, striped socks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-25
Updated: 2014-11-25
Packaged: 2018-02-27 00:59:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2672960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coloured/pseuds/coloured
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Louis gets world-starred in the face by life on his love seat wearing striped socks and sweatpants. Harry finds him and they spontaneously become Voltaire's descendants, even though Louis is blubbering and shit like that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Maybe for Eternity

**Author's Note:**

> Hi friends I am Ang and I wrote this at 12:30 in the morning, I was feeling philosophical and hormonal and neared the stage of panic (THANKS TO MY HOMEDOGS COLLEGE APPS) and I hope you see where I'm getting at with 'it'.

Louis doesn't cry a lot.  
Ok, well, that's a lie.  
He just doesn't do it in front of people.  
Ok, that's also a lie.  
Point blank, Louis Tomlinson is one of, if not is the biggest crier ever.   
But not everyone knows that.  
Ok, fuck it, also a lie.  
There was the time Louis basically soaked Zayn's sweater with tears in the warehouse bathroom because he didn't hit a single note during rehearsals. But who the hell would blame him. He was overcoming laryngitis.  
There was also the time Louis cried for a straight hour (damn, son, in Liam's words) after watching The Fault in Our Stars with the lot of them. But then again, Liam quoted John Green in every other sentence weeks after Niall broke the DVD in anger. So who's really at fault here?  
There was the time Louis had a good cry on Harry the following day of leaving for Seattle. Harry didn't even hesitate to hold the shallow breathed blue-eyed boy. He's Louis' person, and sometimes, Louis got homesick.   
Do you get the point?  
Ok.  
So it's a Wednesday night in early winter, right around the time where snow blankets the ground, and stubborn leaves still on trees disintegrate into the thin air.  
Seriously.   
It's a botany-ological phenomenon.  
Louis is masculinely (or so we say) curled up in a hedgehog-like ball on his love seat facing the kitchen island. He's kind of just there. No shoes. Striped socks he stole from Niall at Niall's 21st birthday party. Shitty sweatpants he more than likely bought at flea market in his high school days. Sweatshirt he stole from Zayn.   
So, yeah.   
He's there, and his mind is everywhere and nowhere, labyrinthine and at a dead end, searching and sitting, and everything in between.  
And it hits him.  
Christina Yang left Grey's Anatomy, and he might as well take off all his clothes, run down the streets of the Westside and attempt to break into the Queen's palace, and get shot doing it, because what the fuck is Grey's Anatomy without Christina Yang.   
Joking.  
It. Hits. Him.  
It. It. It.  
I'm assuming you know what it is.  
It is the sinking feeling you get when you're five years old in your mom's minivan, and you know you're lost, but your mom won't fucking admit it, and insists on taking just one more left turn because she apparently knows where she's going.   
It is the ache you feel in your heart when you realize that the love you have for the boy in second period pre-algebra is unrequited, and you don't even care that it is merely the sixth grade, all you want to do is cry into your cleverly named stuffed rabbit 'Bunny' and shrink until the room becomes the universe.  
It is the indescribable pain that radiates throughout your intoxicated body as you momentarily sober up with the realization that you are so goddamn alone in this fucked up world, and that everybody eventually leaves whether it's willingly or not.  
Louis felt it.  
So his chest collapses into his knees, and his body is wrecked with sobs, and he subconsciously swears to himself that the pressure behind his eyes is near enough to make his head explode- if it already hasn't.  
As he crumbles faster than the London Bridge, Harry rounds the corner of the hallway and finds himself at the side of the temporarily troubled boy.  
As usual, he doesn't hesitate.  
This is ok.  
This happens.  
This is human.  
He rubs soothing circles on Louis' back, even though they can't be felt through the thick material of the sweatshirt.  
It soothes him.  
Give or take.   
Louis senses Harry's presence and slowly but surely turns to face him, mustering up as much composure as he can, well, muster.  
Meeting eyes is always the hardest part.  
Even though it never changes.  
Harry is never judgmental.  
Harry is never bothered.  
Harry is never inconvenienced.  
Harry is always concerned.  
Harry is always accepting.  
Harry is always understanding.  
Harry is always there.  
Right there, where he needs him.  
"Damn, do I need you," Louis manages to get out, burying his face into Harry's crumpled jumper.   
It smelled like corn, nutmeg, pinecone and dirty sock.  
And it was just the way Louis liked it.  
And for some reason not even Louis can fathom, that was more comforting than how Harry's arms were around him, like a protective barrier, like armor to a solider.  
He pulls away from Harry, sniffing and swiping at undried tears, and can only say one thing.  
"Do you understand it?"  
"It?" Harry is quizzical.  
"It."  
Something within the mechanics of Harry Styles' brain connects.  
"I think that's the point of it. For us not to understand. If we understood it, there would be no depth to our lives."  
"So it is what fuels us?"  
"Maybe it is."  
So Louis and Harry sit entangled on the couch, maybe for eternity, maybe for a millisecond, pondering what it is.  
It.  
It.  
It.

**Author's Note:**

> follow me on twitter @slouttysanta


End file.
